


Smoke in the Mirror

by impalagirl, wilddragonflying



Series: Roleplays [65]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky's actually healthier than he is and he's still fresh out of hydra, Depression, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Seriously Steve is Not Healthy in this one, his headspace is all kinds of fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 00:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16964694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalagirl/pseuds/impalagirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: It's nearing three o'clock in the morning when the asset decides to break into Steve Rogers' apartment. He's been watching him for over a month now, watching the daily runs with Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon become biweekly and then weekly and then nonexistent; watching the weekly grocery runs become nightly home deliveries and then weekly visits from friends with arms full of bags and stern expressions on their faces when Rogers opens the door; watching thorough, almost punishing workout routines, even without the presence of Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon get easier and shorter until Rogers stops getting out of bed altogether - and he knows. Something is wrong with Steve Rogers.Something is wrong with the asset.





	Smoke in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to just re-emphasize that Steve is Not in a good headspace like at ALL in this fic for the vast majority of it; there's a lot of issues he has to work through, a lot of them relating to depression - and there's some pretty detailed scenes in here of him experiencing/dealing with his depression, so I wanted to give an additional heads-up here. Just... If you have any problems yourself with depression, please be careful while reading this fic!

It's nearing three o'clock in the morning when the asset decides to break into Steve Rogers' apartment. He's been watching him for over a month now, watching the daily runs with Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon become biweekly and then weekly and then nonexistent; watching the weekly grocery runs become nightly home deliveries and then weekly visits from friends with arms full of bags and stern expressions on their faces when Rogers opens the door; watching thorough, almost punishing workout routines, even without the presence of Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon get easier and shorter until Rogers stops getting out of bed altogether - and he knows. Something is wrong with Steve Rogers.

Something is wrong with the asset.

The asset failed his mission two months ago, pulled Rogers out of the Potomac and turned his back on his handlers, on his very _existence_ , two whole months ago. It feels like a lifetime. It feels like five seconds. No one has come after him yet. Maybe they've got other things to worry about, or maybe they think he's dead, or maybe it's some combination of both or some other factors that the asset hasn't thought of yet. The asset isn't programmed to think. The asset is programmed to follow orders but he defied the last ones and so maybe he's been cut adrift, left to fend for himself as punishment. The asset doesn't like to think about punishment, so he's spent the last two months thinking about other things, for what feels like the first time in his life.

Steve Rogers knows the asset. Or, Steve Rogers knows who the asset used to be, before he was ripped out of the body and the asset was put in. The asset knows this, because Steve Rogers kept talking to him on the helicarrier, kept distracting him from completing his mission. The asset also knows this because the exhibition in the museum explained that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were best friends, and Bucky Barnes had the asset's face. It's for this reason that the asset doesn't decide to break into Steve Rogers' apartment to kill him. The asset strongly suspects that it's too late to complete his mission now and expect reward, forgiveness - and if Steve Rogers knew Bucky Barnes, maybe he knows something that could help the asset now. If Steve Rogers kills himself with apathy and lack of sustenance, however, the asset will never know.

It's so easy to break into Steve Rogers' apartment that the asset is almost embarrassed for him. There's no alarm, no cameras, not even locks on the windows. The asset knows that Steve Rogers has friends in high places, friends who could make his building tighter than Fort Knox, but either their help has not been offered or Steve Rogers hasn't accepted it. From the way Steve Rogers has been acting for the past six weeks, the asset highly favours the latter possibility.

He isn't quiet as he walks through the apartment, going from room to room, purposefully leaving the bedroom for last. He doesn't go through any of the drawers, he doesn't search for paperwork or a computer or any kind of information; there'll be time for that later, when the asset has more of an idea of what exactly he'd be looking for. Right now he just wants to walk around, to familiarise himself with the layout that he already knows like the back of his metal hand. He wants to prove to himself and, he realises as he pops the bedroom door open and stares soundlessly at the figure curled up, fast asleep, beneath at least four blankets, to Steve Rogers himself, that he can.

Suddenly, irrationally, he is angry. Steve Rogers is important, Hydra sent their most valuable and dangerous weapon after him - Steve Rogers should not be so careless as to leave himself unprotected like this. Steve Rogers should look after himself, or at least let his friends do it for him. The asset is disgraced, probably has a target on his back even bigger than Steve Rogers' now, but the fact that he failed in his mission doesn't mean that Steve Rogers is no longer a priority of Hydra's. And, if the asset is honest, there are worse things than him that Hydra could send after someone.

Disgusted with both himself and Steve Rogers, the asset shuts the door sharply and becomes angrier still when Steve Rogers doesn't so much as stir. The asset needs to leave, he needs to leave this apartment and Steve Rogers behind and move on, maybe leave the country. Hydra will be coming after them both sooner rather than later, and Steve Rogers can't help the asset, and the asset certainly won't help Steve Rogers. The asset closes the window he came in through and decides to walk right out of the front door, just because he can - but when he gets there, he hesitates.

There is a photo frame on a little table beside the door, placed in such a way that anyone entering or leaving the apartment would be unable to miss it if it wasn't also placed face-down against the wood. Curious for the first time that he can remember, the asset picks the photograph up and looks at it. It's a picture of a woman in military uniform, her dark hair neat and curled, her smiling lips painted a deep red. She's beautiful, the asset supposes, and he thinks he recognises her - from the museum, perhaps. He looks at her for too long, trying to remember, and suddenly he gets the feeling that she's watching him, _judging_ him, and he puts the frame down again, upright this time, turned so that she's watching the bedroom instead.

When he leaves, the asset makes sure to lock the door behind him.

* * *

When Steve wakes up the next morning, there's enough annoyance from his phone buzzing with notifications to get him out of bed, and once he's out of bed he figures he might as well eat something. All he's got is a packet of PopTarts, one of the weird fruit ones, but he eats it anyway. It's as he's moving into the living room that he notices the picture of Peggy. He'd knocked it down onto its face several days ago, and he hasn't picked it up since. Yet, it's now sitting upright, Peggy's face staring out at him. Steve frowns, getting up to take a closer look, and it's only then that he notices the disturbed dust.

Steve hesitates, fingers twitching towards his phone, but eventually he dismisses the uneasy feeling in the back of his mind. He must have disturbed the dust when he'd knocked the photo down. Steve returns it to the facedown position it had been in, and puts the incident out of his mind as he heads back into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

The asset fully intends to leave. There's nothing in Brooklyn for him, but there are people who are going to want him dead sooner or later; it wouldn't do to stay in one place too long. But by the time morning rolls around, curiosity has gotten the better of him, and he sits in his usual vantage point and watches Steve Rogers notice the picture, pick it up, put it back again. Face down. The asset still doesn't know who the woman in the photograph is, but he thinks it's safe to assume that it's someone Steve Rogers doesn't want to look at.

He should leave after that, curiosity satisfied, he knows - but he doesn't. He's fallen into the habit now of watching Steve Rogers, although he refuses to think of it as watching _out_ for him, and it's a tough habit to break. The asset doesn't remember ever having any habits before, so maybe that's why. Either way, he doesn't leave the city. He doesn't even leave the neighbourhood, or the street Steve Rogers' building is on. But he's doing better than Steve Rogers; Steve Rogers doesn't leave the apartment.

It's almost a week later when the asset decides to break in again. It can hardly be classed as breaking in if all he has to do is pull up a window to get inside, but the asset has never had to justify himself before, so he isn't going to start now. He doesn't really know why he's here this time - the last recon mission made it abundantly clear that Steve Rogers will be of no use to him - but Steve Rogers didn't get out of bed at all today, and the asset mostly just wants to see if he's still alive. That pesky curiosity thing getting the better of him again.

Steve Rogers definitely is still alive; the asset can hear him tossing and turning through the door to the bedroom. Is he alone? _Affirmative._ Is he awake? _Negative._ The restlessness is not a result of any kind of activity, sexual or otherwise; Steve Rogers is sleeping, but fitfully. Perhaps he is ill.

It's not cold in the apartment, but it's not warm either, and something deeply-ingrained in the asset's instincts decides that this isn't acceptable. He turns the heat up, and then goes through the cupboards in the hallway in search of a blanket. He finds none. Perhaps Steve Rogers already has one, which would be smart of him, but seems unlikely. Steve Rogers isn't very smart, especially when it comes to his own well-being. Take the fact that the asset is currently standing completely undetected in his bedroom, for example.

Steve Rogers doesn't have a blanket. Steve Rogers is an idiot.

The asset leaves the room and the apartment, but not before opening the bedroom curtains as wide as they'll go. Maybe if he's forced to look at the window, Steve Rogers will realise that he left it unlocked all night. Again.

Maybe if he's woken up by the morning sun, Steve Rogers will find the motivation to get out of bed and face the day.

* * *

Steve's got the only apartment in Brooklyn it seems like that has a window that faces the morning sun - but Steve hasn't been this rudely awakened in a while. It takes several moments before his brain starts functioning properly enough for him to realize that the reason he's up this early is because the sun is coming right through the window to land on his face. Somehow his curtains got yanked open, but Steve just grumbles to himself, getting out of bed to close them before going to search the rest of the apartment to make sure that Natasha hasn't messed with anything else; her visits are rarely in the light of day since she’s busy establishing new aliases and hunting down more Hydra bases.

Nothing else is out of place, but Steve notes that his cupboards and fridge are almost empty, and he does order some groceries to be delivered. Nonperishables, considering the irregularity of his meals. Nat and Sam would probably be ecstatic that he did that much without being nagged into it by them. Passing by the hallway mirror, Steve hesitates when he catches sight of his greasy hair; he can't remember the last time he had a shower. He considers getting one, but only for a moment before he dismisses the idea. He just can't be bothered.

It's sad, but it's his most productive day in weeks.

* * *

Steve Rogers doesn't leave his apartment over the next few days, but he does order some groceries for himself. The asset knows this because he watches the delivery take place - Steve Rogers accepts it wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, which is the most formal attire he's worn all week - and he can tell from the weight and shape of the bags that they mostly contain junk food. Potato chips and ready meals, most likely, and more boxes of those sugar-filled toaster pastries that the asset saw in the cupboards on one of his visits than the asset cares to count. Just thinking about them is enough to make the asset's teeth ache; it's a wonder that Steve Rogers has any left.

This, the asset decides rather abruptly, is unacceptable. If Steve Rogers is sick, and the asset is beginning to strongly suspect that he is, then he should not be eating junk food. He needs something healthy, something rich in vitamins but not too heavy, interesting enough to tickle his fancy. Some kind of fruit, maybe, oranges or apples or-- _Nectarines_.

Steve Rogers is sick, and he needs nectarines.

The asset is busy for most of the next day, but nothing seems to have changed when he returns to the apartment that night. Steve Rogers is asleep once more, the trash is full of empty PopTarts boxes, and the pile of laundry that has been growing on the kitchen floor for the past three days has finally progressed into the washing machine, but no further action has been taken. The asset briefly considers pulling it all out again, sorting it into colours and whites, but he can't bring himself to care quite that much. Instead, he pours soap powder and fabric conditioner into the drawer, and sets it on a cycle that will, according to the display, last for an hour and twelve minutes. He won't wait to take the clothes out afterwards; he wants to see what Steve Rogers will do with them in the morning.

This curiosity is also the reason for the bag of nectarines that the asset sets down on the kitchen counter before he leaves.

* * *

When Steve wakes up, it's to the impatient beeping of the washing machine; somehow, a load got started in the middle of the night. Steve groans in annoyance; it's not the first time Natasha started a load of clothes for him, but she hasn't done that in ages, and he thought she was in Australia this week. Eventually the beeping gets too annoying, and he pushes himself out of bed to switch the clothes to the dryer if only to get the washer to shut the hell up.

On his way back to the bedroom, Steve spots a splash of color on the countertop that wasn't there the night before, and for the first time in he-doesn't-know-how-long, he feels genuinely surprised - and not in a bad way. A careful inspection reveals that the color isn't anything more than a bag of nectarines, but Steve still hesitates before opening it. No one from this side of the ice knows how much he loves nectarines - he'd rarely been able to afford them before the War, and they'd been his favorite treat when he had the extra money. Still, eventually Steve decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he takes the bag with him into the bedroom.

* * *

The asset hasn't seen Steve Rogers today. Today is a 'me day'; he saw the term on a billboard a couple of days ago and he likes it. It seems like watching Steve Rogers is all he does now, but today he's taking a break. He's going shopping.

The asset doesn't actually have any money, but while he can't seem to bring himself to mug anyone, he doesn't have any issues with stealing what he needs. So he lifts some fruit and a bag of chips from the local convenience store, some gum and fifty hair elastics from a strange little place that sells shampoo right alongside bottles of vodka, and even happens across a pair of gloves. He's rummaging through the men's section of a thrift store when he finds it, an old red tee with faded lettering across the chest. It's pretty unremarkable, as far as t-shirts go, but something about it tugs at the back of the asset's mind. He puts it to one side and keeps looking - red is hardly practical for his lifestyle - and finds two black shirts that will do nicely.

He leaves the thrift store with three new 'purchases', and that night he breaks into Steve Rogers' apartment to leave another gift on his kitchen counter.

* * *

Steve's actually been productive the past couple of days; he's gotten laundry done, taken a shower, he even went outside for a while earlier, just to walk around the block before he went back inside, but it's more than he's accomplished in weeks. He's even considering starting up jogging again - because he needs to get out, he knows that, but he doesn't feel up to actually jogging _with_ someone just yet - when he returns to the apartment, only to freeze when he spots the shirt sitting on the counter. His breath catches in his chest, and his hand actually shakes when he reaches for the shirt.

The lettering on the front of it proclaims it a souvenir from Coney Island, and Steve's instantly hit with the memories of the times he and Bucky went there when they had the money and needed a day off, and it takes him several moments to make himself move. When he does, it's towards the trash can, where the shirt is unceremoniously dumped before he all but bolts for the bedroom, locking the door behind him.

If that was Natasha or Sam's idea of trying to help Steve remember happier times, then he’s going to kick their asses the next time he sees them. 

* * *

Steve Rogers' reaction to the shirt is not one that the asset could ever have predicted, and it leaves him unsettled for much of the next day. He doesn't leave his vantage point once, watches Steve Rogers' apartment unrelentingly in the hope that Steve Rogers will emerge, somehow unaffected by the proceedings of the night before, but he doesn't. As far as the asset can tell, Steve Rogers doesn't get out of bed once.

The phone rings at some point, the asset knows this only because he watches Steve Rogers look at the screen before launching it across the room - the most energetic thing he's done all day - and an hour later Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon turns up at the entrance to the building, rings Steve Rogers' buzzer a few times and then steps back to shout abuse up at Steve Rogers' window, but then he leaves. The asset thinks that Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon could have easily gotten into the building if he'd wanted to, but maybe he thinks Steve Rogers needs time to be left to his own devices.

The asset disagrees.

Steve can hear the phone buzzing on and off for the rest of the day; damned StarkPhone was nearly indestructible, apparently. No one else tries to show up at his apartment, however, and when darkness falls Steve eventually follows into a fitful sleep.

A sleep that is disturbed by the sound of someone stepping on one of the Steve's PopTart wrappers.

Steve doesn't open his eyes immediately, instead taking in as much information as he can through his other senses. He doesn't feel in danger, but that doesn't count for much. After a moment, he opens his eyes and sits up sharply, not bothering with the lamp. "Who's there?" he demands, voice rough. 

The asset freezes, and almost curses aloud, but he stops himself just in time. The room is dark, and Steve Rogers hasn't turned on a light; if he could see the asset, he wouldn't be asking questions. Instead, the asset holds still, watches Steve curiously through eyes already accustomed to the gloom, and waits to see what happens next.

Steve can just see the outline of the intruder, and he focuses on that, briefly cursing the fact that he left his shield on the other side of the bed. "Who's there?" he demands again, this time making to get out of the bed. 

The asset moves like lightning, out of the door and then out of the apartment, the sound of Steve Rogers' voice ringing in his ears.

* * *

The next day when Natasha calls, Steve doesn't throw his phone cross the room; he actually answers it. "I think someone broke in last night," is what he leads with, which she probably wasn't expecting.

"What?" Natasha demands. "What happened?"

"They woke me up," Steve answers. "Bolted when I tried to get out of bed; I didn't get a good look at them."

"Them? You couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman?"

Steve sighs. "It was the middle of the night; I think man, but the moon wasn't great and they moved too fast. Nothing was missing, though."

"So they didn't do anything?" Natasha asks, but she sounds more thoughtful than demanding now. "Steve, I really think it's time that we install some security cameras around your apartment, _at least_."

Steve hesitates, almost agrees - but pride changes his answer. "No, it's fine. If they didn't take anything, then it's not a problem." Nat and Sam probably know how pathetic he is, but he really doesn't need Tony finding out. He'll never hear the end of it.

"Steve," Nat says. "Let us help you."

"I'm fine, Nat," Steve says, even though it's clearly a lie. "I don't need security cameras."

"Let me at least come over," Natasha says. "Check the place out."

Steve sighs, but knows she won't give up until he agrees to this. "All right," he says. "You can come over."

* * *

Natasha arrives within the hour, and does a thorough inspection of Steve's apartment like he hasn't already done that himself. Once she's satisfied that Steve is right and his uninvited guest really did nothing except creep on him while he was sleeping, she flops down onto his sofa and demands that he makes her some tea. She doesn't drink tea, same as Steve, and the meaning behind the gesture isn't lost on him. Apparently the fact that he misses Peggy sorely has not gone unnoticed.

Afterwards, when Steve is showing her out, she turns suddenly and gets right up in his space, poking a finger sharply into his chest in a way that would have bruised a deep purple back before the war. "Anything else happens," she says fiercely. " _Anything_. And I'm turning Stark loose on this place, with or without your permission."

Steve raises his hands in supplication. "Okay, fine," he says. "I probably scared them off, though, so don't worry."

"I'll always worry," Natasha says, surprisingly gentle. "I know you have literal decades of experience, but you're not exactly feeling yourself right now. So we're here for you, okay?"

"I know," Steve says quietly. "I appreciate it."

She smiles at him. "I'll see you soon," she promises.

Steve returns the smile. "See you."

* * *

The asset doesn't set his rifle down until the woman has disappeared around a corner at the end of the street, and then his attention returns once more to Steve Rogers. He doesn't seem distressed or upset; he seems perfectly calm, maybe even a little cheerful. Does he not know who the woman is?

The asset knows - and the asset is scared.

Steve Rogers is stupid. This, the asset knows for sure, because Steve Rogers hadn't even seemed to notice that the woman was threatening him before she left, her body language screaming danger before she relaxed completely and even gave him a smile. The asset has seen bigger men lose control of their bladders upon receipt of one of this woman's smiles. But Steve Rogers is smiling now, faint and barely there but there nonetheless, like he hasn't just served the Angel of Death a cup of tea in his living room. Steve Rogers won't be so lucky next time, the asset is certain of it.

He must be warned.

Steve gets a few hours of peace, but then night falls and shortly after, Steve realizes he's not alone. He rolls from his chair, where he'd been watching television, grabbing his shield as he rolls to hold it defensively as he scans for the threat, and he freezes when he clocks it. 

The Winter Soldier - _Bucky_ \- is standing in the hallway. 

All Steve can do is stare for several long moments, but eventually he manages to croak out, "What are you doing here?"

The asset gazes steadily at Steve Rogers, takes in the surprise and the fear and something else he can't quite name in his eyes, and thinks that maybe he isn't as stupid as he thought. Still, he says, "To warn you."

"About what?" Steve asks sharply. Nat hadn't said anything about a threat, and he hasn't heard anything from anyone else, so what could Bucky be talking about?

"You're not safe here," the asset says. "You need to be more careful."

"What are you talking about?" Steve demands. "There's no threat here."

The asset takes a step back, towards the window he came in through. "Then you need to open your eyes."

"Open my eyes to what? Bucky, wait," Steve says, starting to panic as Bucky retreats. "Wait, what do you mean?"

The asset reaches the window, turns to glare at Steve Rogers because he's an idiot. "Bucky is dead," he says, and leaves.

Steve can't react in time, and by the time he moves Bucky's long gone. Steve hesitates, then locks the window behind him before returning to the couch, shield dropping to the floor with a _clunk_ that's barely muffled by the carpet. Steve buries his head in his hands, breathing harsh and ragged as he runs back through the conversation in his head. Bucky thought he was in danger, but wouldn't tell him from what - or who. He said Steve needed to open his eyes, which meant... What? Bucky thought the threat was someone close to him?

Steve breathes in deeply, releasing his breath slowly. Hell, he thinks dully, who's to say he didn't just imagine this whole thing? A quick investigation of the windowsill reveals no disturbed dust that Steve can attribute to Bucky with any certainty, no sign that anyone else could look at and say, "The Winter Soldier was here."

Eventually, Steve retreats back to his bedroom; he's not going to get any answers tonight, and his head - and heart - hurt too much for him to keep thinking on it so hard. Sleep offers little relief that night or the next, or the one after that; Steve almost can't do anything _but_ think about what happened, and a week after what might not have been real, Natasha drops by unannounced. She's waiting for Steve when he gets back from the twice-weekly walks he's been forcing himself into, and Steve pauses just inside the door. "Is there a reason you broke into my apartment?" he asks after a moment. 

"Not really," Natasha says. "Felt like a chat, you weren't home. Now you are."

"Uh-huh," Steve says, locking the door behind him before heading for the kitchen to get a drink. "A chat about what?"

"Just wanted to know if you were still alive," Nat says mildly. "You've been quiet the last few days. Any more bumps in the night?"

"No," Steve says, and it's not a lie; he hasn’t seen Bucky or any other intruder since the last time Nat was here. "No more uninvited guests - not until you showed up, anyway."

Natasha smiles sweetly at him. "But don't I have a standing invitation?"

"Since when?" Steve demands, but he's grinning. 

"Rude," Natasha huffs. "What are you just standing there for? Make me some tea."

"You don't even like tea," Steve points out. "And I don't have any anyway. You drank the last of it last time you were here."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Whatever," she says. "Maybe if you went outside more you'd shop more, too."

Steve frowns. "I've been going out more," he says defensively. 

Nat's expression softens. "I know," she says. "We're proud of you."

Part of Steve thinks it's pathetic, that Natasha is proud of him for just leaving the goddamn apartment, but the rest of him knows that things haven't been right with him since DC, and recognizes that while it might be a small step, it's still an important one. He settles for a slight smile. "Thank you," he says. 

* * *

The asset decides to pay another visit that night. Steve Rogers is still awake, but he doesn't notice the asset is in the apartment until he gets up to go to the bathroom and the asset is waiting for him in the kitchen upon his return. They stare at each other for a few moments before the asset decides to break the silence. "You're an idiot."

Steve frowns, thrown the way he hadn’t had the wherewithal to be the first time; that's Bucky's face, and his voice - but the accent is more Russian than anything else. "That sounds like something you've thought before," he says after a long period of silence. 

"You're an idiot," the asset repeats. "I warned you."

"No, you gave me a cryptic-ass message," Steve snaps. 

The asset just raises his eyebrows. "She'll kill you."

"She - " Something clicks into place then, and Steve blurts, "Are you talking about _Nat?_ "

"She is an assassin," the asset tells him. "She is here to kill you."

Steve can't help the chuckle that escapes him. "If she wanted to kill me, she could have done it months ago. Or anytime in the past several weeks."

The asset frowns. "Then why hasn't she?"

"Because she doesn't do that anymore," Steve answers. "Hasn't for years."

The asset frowns. "She must," he says. "I _trained_ her."

Steve blinks. "She hasn't done that for years, since she defected to SHIELD," he says slowly. "When did you train her?"

"I--" The asset hesitates. "I don't know."

Steve nods; honestly, he'd expected that answer. "Well, I can tell you that she's no threat to me. She's an Avenger, and we're damned proud to have her."

"Can you be sure?" the asset demands.

"Yes," Steve says simply. "She's proven herself."

The asset lets out a sharp breath, his head spinning. "You should still be careful," he says, and turns to leave."

" _Wait,_ " Steve cries, almost desperate. 

The asset turns back. "What?"

"I - Don't go," Steve says, and he hates how desperate he sounds. "Please."

But the asset is already uncomfortable, made even more so by the way the sound of this man's distress is twisting in his chest, and he shakes his head sharply, dismissively. "Don't die," he snaps, before he can stop himself - and then he has to leave.

* * *

The asset manages to stay away from Steve Rogers for just over a week. He still watches him, of course, but he doesn't break in again until Steve Rogers goes out one evening and doesn't come back for six hours.

The asset is sitting on the couch, waiting, when he finally returns. The asset glares at him. "Where have you been?"

Steve blinks, then can't help but laugh quietly. "Who are you, my babysitter? I've been at an Avengers gala thing that Tony threw; Nat and Sam all but dragged me there," he answers as he toes off his shoes.

The asset scowls. "Against your will?"

Steve shrugs. ”Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the most sociable person lately,” he answers. ”I had fun once we got there, for the most part.” 

"And now?"

Steve looks at Bucky with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean?" 

The asset huffs, gets to his feet. "Forget it," he says. "I shouldn't have come here."

"Then why did you?" Steve challenges. 

The asset hesitates, off-balance. "I... I don't know."

"Why do you keep coming around?" Steve presses. 

"I don't _know_ ," the asset says again, irritated now.

"Wait," Steve says, suddenly desperate. "Don't go."

" _Why?_ "

Steve hesitates, but then admits, "I don't want to be alone." And that’s the crux of, well, everything, isn't it? He’s lonely; no one in this century knows him the way that Bucky had, none of them have that 'shared life experience' he'd mentioned once to Natasha. And hell, even if what Steve is starting to suspect is true, he'll take whatever he can get. 

The asset hesitates, though he already knows what his answer is. He shouldn't care - he _doesn't care_ \- but at the same time, he hates the thought of this man being lonely. So he scowls, and slowly, he sits back down. "One hour," he warns.

"Deal," Steve says quickly, eager to take whatever Bucky's willing to give him. Steve pauses for a moment, casting for a safe - well, _safer_ topic - and eventually settles on, "What do you do? During the day, I mean."

The asset shoots him a sharp look. "What do you do?"

Steve shrugs. "I've been trying to get out more, actually do more things, but it's hard," he says honestly. 

The asset nods. He knows that much. "Why?"

"Why what? Why am I trying to do them, or why are they hard?"

The asset thinks about that. "Both."

Steve takes the time to choose his words carefully. "They're hard, because I don't have any motivation to do them. I don't have motivation to do anything, except when the world needs me to. It's easier to lie in bed all day and do nothing." Sharon had actually been the one to send Steve an email with several links; they'd all been to various mental health websites, and a bit of research had brought Steve to the conclusion that most likely, he was depressed. He doesn't think there’s any point in getting diagnosed, though; what good would it do, when no prescriptions would work for him? His body metabolizes any medication too quickly for it to be useful the way it was intended. "But I've been pushing myself to get out more, to be more physical, because if I don't, if I'm not in shape, if I'm not prepared, then how am I going to be of any use?" Probably not the healthiest way of thinking, of himself in terms of how useful he is to the world, to other people, but it’s working, it’s the kick Steve needs to get out the door on those days he goes out, so he isn't going to look into it too closely.

The asset nods. "You're... important," he offers.

"So the rest of the world seems to think," Steve agrees, but he's smiling nonetheless. "I'm trying not to let them down, but don't think I didn't notice how you switched the conversation to me. I asked you what _you_ do during the day, remember?"

The asset shrugs. "Nothing," he says.

Steve raises an eyebrow. "I find that a bit hard to believe," he says, tone teasing.

The asset shrugs again. "I have a mission."

"And what is that mission?" Steve asks carefully. 

The asset smirks. "I have a target."

"To kill?" Steve asks bluntly. 

"No," the asset answers. "To watch. I need... intel."

That gets Steve's attention in a way not a lot has lately. "Intel about what?"

The asset smirks again, and it feels foreign on his face but it comes as easy as breathing. "Classified."

Steve rolls his eyes, but he's smiling nonetheless. "Fine, is there anything you can tell me that _isn't_ classified?"

"Not really," the asset answers. "Depends what you're asking."

Steve raises an eyebrow. _Challenge accepted,_ he thinks. "What's your favorite food?"

Not a good question. The asset has only been able to stomach solid food for a short while, and before he was let loose he can't remember ever having eaten anything. And yet... "Plums," he says slowly. "I like plums."

Steve smiles; Bucky had had a soft spot for fruits before the war, too, although plums hadn't been his favorite. "Plums, huh? Well, I'm more of a nectarine fan."

The smirk is back. "I know."

Steve can't help but smile at that, just a little pleased one, but a smile nonetheless. "Which part of the city do you like best?" he asks next, one eye on the clock. 

"Central Park," is the answer.

"Yeah? I've always liked the trails there," Steve says with a smile, trying to coax Bucky into a conversation. He's met with mixed success over the remainder of his hour; he doesn't really find out much of anything new - or much of anything at all, really. Still, as the end of the hour ticks nearer, Steve finds himself deciding to ask a riskier question; Bucky's going to be leaving soon anyway, so why not? What's the worst he can do, leave? It takes Steve a moment to decide on a question, and then he asks, "Why did you come check up on me tonight?"

The asset glances furtively towards the window, wonders if he can get out before Steve realises he's moved. Probably not; even he isn't that good. He sighs. "I was... concerned."

"Why?" Steve pushes.

"You haven't left the apartment for so long in months."

Steve's eyes widen in realization. " _I'm_ the classified mission?"

The asset finds himself nodding. "You are."

" _Why?_ " Steve demands. "I'm assuming you aren't here to kill me, or I'd be dead already. If you've been watching me for weeks, then you've had plenty of opportunities to do so."

"No," the asset says. "I'm not here to kill you."

"Then why are you here?" Steve presses.

The asset grits his teeth. "I don't know."

"You have to have an idea."

The asset gets to his feet rather than answer. "The hour's up."

Steve swallows back his protest. "Okay. Will you come back?"

The asset shrugs. "Maybe."

Steve bites his lip, but nods. "Okay. I guess you're going then."

The asset grunts by way of agreement, and heads over to the window. He doesn't look back until he's sure he'll no longer see the apartment building.

* * *

Steve doesn’t leave the apartment the next day, too wrapped up in trying to parse what happened the night before. He does manage to make it into the kitchen and make an egg with some toast, mostly because he’s running on autopilot. He goes over the apartment, looking for any sign that Bucky was there - but he can’t find anything. There’s nothing to say that last night actually happened - but Steve wasn’t drunk, not even a little. He keeps an eye out over the next few days, but never spots a hint of Bucky. He kicks himself periodically; why should he expect to see anything? He never has before. 

Steve’s in the middle of kicking himself after mistaking someone he’d nearly bumped into on the other end of the block for Bucky when he realizes that there’s someone standing in front of his apartment building waving at him. “Sam?” he asks, eyes widening. “What - What’re you doing here?”

"Making sure you're still alive," Sam says lightly, and it's probably not really a joke. "I know the gala took it out of you, but I thought you were going to call me."

Steve blanks for a second, then groans. "I did tell you I was gonna call," he mutters. "Sorry, I kinda... spaced out on the way home, I guess."

Sam finally lets his concern show. "You all right?" he asks. "Did something happen?"

Steve's shaking his head before he realizes it "Nah," he says. "I just got into a weird mood and ended up going to bed."

Sam considers him for a moment, then nods. "Okay," he says. "So what are you doing now?"

"I was just walking around the block," Steve answers, rubbing the back of his neck. "Been trying to get out of the apartment a bit more."

"Oh." Sam's smile is bright, almost blinding. "That's good, man, that's really good."

Steve shrugs one shoulder, but he can't help the slight tilt to his mouth. "It's better," he concedes. "I was thinking of going around one more time, actually. It's a nice day."

"You want some company?" Sam asks. "I expected to spend the afternoon dragging your ass out of bed, so I've got some time."

Steve hesitates, but then nods, giving Sam a small but sincere smile. "I'd like that."

* * *

The asset did not intend to return to Steve Rogers' apartment so soon. He did not intend to return at all, but he still can't quite seem to settle with the idea of walking away. He's barely moved from his vantage point across the street from Steve Rogers' building for three days, except when he drops down to street level and tails Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon when he accompanies Steve Rogers on his walks. He only tails Steve Rogers himself once, the first time he goes out after that night, but he still doesn't quite trust Steve Rogers to be alone with any of his so-called friends.

He definitely doesn't trust Steve Rogers to be alone with the Black Widow, codename: Natasha Romanoff. She turns up again on the third day, is waiting for Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon when they get back from their walk. The asset sees her before they do, which is embarrassing for them, honestly, but it means that he can get off the street before she notices him and realises her cover is blown. He watches them exchange a few words before going up to the apartment, and he watches that exchange too, seething silently. He knows what Steve Rogers thinks of the Black Widow, but he also knows that Steve Rogers is wrong. He doesn't right breathe again until she leaves, Sam Wilson, codename: Falcon in tow, and then he stands up.

Steve Rogers cannot be trusted to be alone with himself.

Steve is, for once, in a legitimately _good_ mood. He, Sam, and Natasha had watched a movie and ended up throwing popcorn at the screen and each other. It’s the most fun Steve’s had in a long time, possibly since he woke up from the ice. He’s actually rinsing out the bowls they’d used for their snack and he’s already vacuumed the living room. He’s surprised at himself, because he honestly can’t remember the last time he vacuumed without having to force himself to do it.

Steve’s still smiling to himself when he returns to the living room, but it drops off of his face to make room for shock when he sees someone standing by the couch, glaring at him. “Bucky?”

The asset doesn't dignify that with acknowledgement. "You're doing better," he says instead. "But you're still an idiot."

”What are you talking about?” Steve asks, frowning. “Is this about Nat again?”

"Do you have any idea how many weapons she had on her person?" the asset asks. "I'll tell you how many you and your other friend had combined: none."

“Natasha is a weapon all by herself,” Steve points out. “She’s also rightfully paranoid after D.C. But she’s also one of _our_ friends.”

The asset just sighs, shakes his head. "Fine," he says. "You need to eat something with actual nutritional value."

Steve sighs as well, rolling his eyes. “Right, of course. Anything in particular you want me to eat?” His voice carries a distinct note of sarcasm.

The asset's lip curls. "For someone over the age of ninety, you really should know how to look after yourself better," he says. "You're going out now, seeing people of varying levels of trustworthiness, great. But it's not enough. You should know this."

Steve glares at him. "Of course I _know,_ " he snaps. "I know everything I _should_ be doing, but I can't just make myself do it. It's called being fucking _depressed,_ and it's the worst goddamn thing on the planet, and I really don't need anyone else judging me, especially not someone like you!"

The asset stares at him for a long moment, feeling absolutely nothing at all, and then he shrugs one shoulder. "All right," he says, and leaves.

* * *

Steve does his best to put the incident out of his mind, but its effect lingers. He relapses - a word he remembers from one of the links he’d explored what feels like forever ago - and once again, it becomes difficult to get out of bed, much less the apartment. He manages, somehow. Maybe it’s only because Sam and Nat are expecting him to be better than he was two months ago, but he manages.

Then, as the weather turns colder, the missions get harder. Chasing down and clearing out HYDRA safehouses should be straightforward, and it is, until HYDRA brings innocents into the equation. Somehow, they learn of the Avengers’ approach and they kidnap people from the nearby town. It complicates things, and in the end, most of them make it out. Except for the two who are shot in the seconds it takes for Steve’s shield to circle the room and clear the guards.

After that, Natasha and Sam try to reason with him - itchy trigger fingers that had already been on the trigger before the doors were even opened, the ends of the barrels pressed directly against temples - but it doesn’t change the fact, in Steve’s mind, that two people are dead because he wasn’t quick enough.

He relapses further, leaving the apartment less and less even as he pushes himself further and further with punching bags - going through two or three a day, sometimes - and other exercises, barely remembering to eat and drink. It helps a little, but in the end, not enough.

Another mission, another death, another life he couldn’t save, and another relapse as the first snows fall over New York City, driving everyone indoors.

* * *

The asset did not return to his vantage point for over a week after Steve Rogers told him he didn't need him - but he's been watching him ever since. He knows Steve Rogers is struggling again, knows that it's more than likely at least partially his fault, though he knows too about the battles Steve Rogers and his comrades fought and won but also lost. There was nothing the asset himself could do, too busy keeping Steve Rogers alive whenever his teammates' backs were turned - the whole time - to worry about anyone else. But somehow the asset understands that any life lost, for Steve Rogers, feels like they were all lost - and so Steve Rogers struggles.

The asset struggles too, watching from a distance, though that isn't the reason he's letting himself into Steve Rogers' apartment via the kitchen window once more. The blanket of snow covering the city and the sudden plummet in temperature also has nothing to do with it. The asset is here because, finally, he has decided that Steve Rogers may be useful.

He picks the kitchen because Steve Rogers is, for the first time all day, up, and he watches impassively as the asset slides the glass up from the outside and slips with deadly grace onto the counter and then down to the floor. He closes the window after himself, because he's feeling polite. "You're Steve Rogers," the asset says, before Steve Rogers himself can speak. "Captain America."

"Yeah," Steve says, looking back down at the glass of milk in his hands. "I'm supposed to be."

The asset ignores that in favour of asking a question he really didn't come here to ask. "The woman," he says. "In the photograph by the door. Who is she?"

Steve's quiet for a moment, and when he finally answers, it's in a voice just barely loud enough to be heard. "Margaret Carter. Peggy."

"She's important to you," the asset states. "Why do you hide her picture?"

Steve sighs. "Because it's a reminder," he says. "I loved Peggy, could have been in love with her, someday, I think. If... a lot of things had been different. I don't need to see the reminder of that, of everything that happened back then, during my waking hours, too."

The asset considers that for a moment, considers what it means. "Why do you keep it, then?"

"Because I can't just let go of the past," Steve answers. "I need to remember it, even when it hurts. If you forget the past, then you just make the same mistakes in the future."

"And what mistakes are those?"

Steve laughs, but it's humorless, or nearly so. "Mostly being oblivious. Not appreciating what I had."

The asset nods, taking this in. "So are you learning?" he asks.

"I thought I was."

The asset shakes his head, doesn't really know what to say. "Have you eaten tonight?" he asks abruptly.

Steve blinks at the sudden subject change. "No?"

"All right," the asset says, already moving toward the fridge. "Come on."

Steve blinks again. "What?"

"Watching you eat PopTarts is by far the most monotonous part of my day," the asset admits. He pulls out some lettuce that's only just starting to wilt and a pack of pre-cooked chicken that runs out in two days. "And you seem to eat them for every meal."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "Watching me eat PopTarts? You've been watching me."

The asset shrugs his right shoulder. "I did tell you. You should be more vigilant."

Steve snorts. “Of course. What’re you doing with the chicken and lettuce?” He frowns. “I didn’t even know I had lettuce.”

The asset looks at Steve Rogers over his shoulder and pushes the ingredients along the counter towards him. After a moment more with the fridge he also produces a block of cheese and adds it to the pile. "I don't care."

Steve rolls his eyes, but after a moment’s thought grabs two slices of bread from the pack on the counter and a paper plate; he puts the chicken on the plate and, after consulting the directions, sticks it in the microwave for the required time. He grabs a knife as well, slicing a bit of cheese off of the block Bucky found. “Do... you want a sandwich?” he offers, a bit hesitantly.

The asset thinks about it, but shakes his head. He's still not good with adventurous food and he ate earlier, anyway. "Knock yourself out," he offers.

Steve hesitates, however, watching Bucky with an odd expression on his face. After a moment, he nods and turns back to the food, though he seems much more subdued. 

* * *

The asset leaves not long after that, but he goes back. Steve Rogers has been asleep for no more than five minutes before the kitchen window is sliding open again and the asset is letting himself back into the apartment. He tells himself that it's cold outside, the snow fresh on the ground and still falling heavily, and that Steve Rogers needs someone to watch his six. The asset resents having to be the one to do it, resents being invested enough to want it done in the first place, but none of Steve Rogers' so-called friends are up to the task, and watching Steve Rogers being useless and pathetic has become a rather engaging pastime. It would be a shame if Steve Rogers died before the asset got bored.

He's there most nights, though he never lets himself be seen. It is cold outside, and while he never actually sleeps in the apartment, being able to rest in the warm is certainly beneficial. His shoulder and back don't seem to ache don't seem to ache quite so much, for one thing. He still doesn't eat Steve Rogers' food, doesn't use his shower or his washing machine. He does, on one occasion, fold the laundry Steve Rogers forgets in the dryer before he goes to bed, and leaves it in a pile on the kitchen counter. He is always, always gone by morning.

He may spend his evenings lurking in Steve Rogers' shadows, but he spends his days elsewhere. Mostly, admittedly, crouched in his vantage point, staring at Steve Rogers through windows and the scope of his rifle, but he also wanders more. It keeps the blood flowing, and he still needs to eat, needs to clothe himself. He is also, through both his meanderings through the city and his rummagings through Steve Rogers' drawers, slowly formulating another question - or, perhaps, re-formulating the one he meant to ask in the first place.

This is how he ends up, one sunny and brutal afternoon about two weeks after the first snowfall, staring at a plaque on the side of an ancient apartment building in Brooklyn.

"Bit droll, isn't it?" the woman standing next to him muses. "The man led the special forces that nearly wiped out the original HYDRA, rescued God knows how many prisoners of war, and gave his life to save the entire world, and they couldn't have worded the plaque better than 'Steve Rogers lived here with James Barnes from 1940 to 1944'?"

The asset doesn't even look at her. "Do you think it's true?" he asks.

"That he lived here? Yes, I do. My mother grew up in this area, and her mother, too. Grandmama knew the Barneses; she was friends with their youngest daughter, Rebecca. She remembers her talking about visiting her brother and his friend at their apartment on this block."

The asset's breath catches, but he makes sure she doesn't hear it. "Her brother," he repeats. He points to the plaque. "James?"

The woman nods. "Grandmama only knew him as Bucky, though. That was what everyone called him."

The asset makes a thoughtful sound and peers up at the building again. "It doesn't look like much. Were they... poor?"

"Yes," the woman says matter-of-factly. "They weren't the poorest family, but they had to tighten their belts often."

"Well," the asset says, his gaze raised to the heavens, "he ain't poor now."

"Financially, no," she agrees. "But I can't imagine you make too many friends being a superhero who took down one of the largest intelligence agencies in the world."

The asset does look at her, then. She's small, slight, very non-threatening. "What are you talking about?" he demands. "He has a team."

She shrugs. "Being on the same team doesn't automatically make you friends," she points out. "There are plenty of sports teams where some members can't stand each other but they still manage to work together."

"And you think Captain America has teammates who can't stand him," the asset says flatly.

She shrugs. "I wouldn't go that far. But no one has ever seen Steve Rogers at anything other than those fancy galas Stark puts on sometimes, and even then he's never very social with anyone but Black Widow and Falcon. I just think he could use a few more friends, and his team doesn't seem to be stepping up to the plate, that's all."

The asset just stares at her until she starts to become uncomfortable, and then he turns and walks away. It's time to pay another visit to Steve Rogers.

* * *

Steve's finally managed to convince himself to go on a grocery run, and while he does pass most of it in a fog he manages to actually pick up some frozen fruits and vegetables. They'll keep longer, he'd read online, and they're just as good as fresh ones. He hasn't left the apartment for much the past few weeks, partly because of the weather, but he has at least been getting out of bed most days and making use of the stockpile of punching bags he keeps in the spare room. Bucky was right about Steve needing to eat better; he still eats more PopTarts and Hot Pockets than is healthy, but since he started making more of an effort to include fruits and vegetables, he's noticed that he feels better. 

Of course, all thoughts of any kind fly out of Steve's head the moment he shuts his apartment door behind him and turns around to see Bucky standing in his living room. "Oh. What are you doing here?" he asks before he really thinks it through. 

The asset shrugs. "I wanted to talk to you."

Steve looks at him for a moment before shrugging. "Okay," he says, carrying his grocery bags towards the kitchen. "What about?" 

The asset still doesn't really know, so he says, "You used to live in Brooklyn."

Steve nods, sorting through his bags to find the frozen food. "We did." 

The asset allows himself to grimace because he knows Steve can't see it. "And you were poor."

"Everyone in that neighborhood was," Steve says dismissively. "We might've had it a little worse in winter because I was always getting sick, but that was all."

"Did you have friends?" the asset asks.

"Just you and your family, really," Steve answers after a moment of thought. "I was too hot-tempered for most people. Never knew when to shut the hell up."

The asset frowns. "You talk like I was there."

"You were," Steve replies, glancing over his shoulder. 

The asset narrows his eyes. "That wasn't me."

Steve shrugs. "I know what I know," he says evenly. "I lived with Bucky, he was my best friend, and you're Bucky. Been through hell, if even half of that file Nat gave me is true, but you're still him."

"Not anymore," the asset says. "They took him out and put me in."

"Well obviously he's not completely gone," Steve argues. "Why else would you stop trying to kill me on the helicarrier?"

The asset hesitates, because really, isn't that why he started watching this man in the first place? "I don't know," he admits.

"Might be something to think about. You want something to drink? I got some of that instant hot chocolate."

The asset shakes his head sharply. "No," he says. "Tell me. Why did I save you? Why did I pull you out of that river?"

"Told Sam that was you," Steve says with a small, satisfied smirk. "And I don't know, maybe because you're more like Bucky than you think? All it took to break Hydra's hold was me telling you something you said to me nearly eighty years earlier. You haven't made a single move to harm me in months, and now that I know you've been here, I'm about ninety-eight percent sure that it was you who brought me nectarines a couple months ago. You keep trying to warn me away from Natasha because you think she's dangerous, and don't think I haven't noticed that look you get every time I mention Sam, like you don't really approve of him. You _care._ "

"I don't _care_ ," the asset argues, though he doesn't manage to say it aloud with the same conviction as he thinks it to himself. "You're just no good to me if you're dead."

"What's the difference?" Steve challenges. 

"You're _useful_ ," the asset stresses. "You're my _mission_. You think I cared about any of my other missions? Most of them ended with a head shot."

"Did any of them last months? How long have you been stalking me, now?"

The asset does not feel comfortable disclosing that information, so he just says, "That's not the point. The mission lasts as long as it needs to. You haven't served your purpose yet."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "And what is that purpose? Obviously it isn't just to die, though I doubt you would have killed me anyway, after D.C."

 _To help me,_ the asset thinks desperately. _To tell me who I am._ But isn't that what he's been doing anyway? It's not his fault if the asset doesn't like the answers. "That's arrogant," he says instead. "What happened in DC was muscle memory, nothing more. If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead."

"Well, since I'm still breathing, I'm going to say you don't want me dead," Steve concludes, turning away to make himself a mug of hot chocolate. "And is it really arrogance to believe you don't want to kill me if all the evidence points to it?"

The asset shakes his head. "You're making assumptions based on what you think you know about someone who died over seventy years ago. Whether you know it or not. If I wasn't wearing _his_ face, you wouldn't be so sure."

Steve laughs quietly as he waits for the milk to heat up. "Not just on that. I told you, Natasha gave me a file about the Winter Soldier. It included reports on more than a dozen missions, enough for me to get an idea of how he operated. You're not acting anything like how the reports indicate you should if you were planning to kill me."

The asset scowls. "Maybe I'm not," he says, "but you can guarantee someone else is."

 _That_ gets Steve's attention. "What do you mean?" he asks sharply. 

"You're Captain America," the asset says. "If you really think there aren't at least six separate organisations that are plotting your untimely demise right this second, then that _is_ arrogant. And the way you're behaving right now, letting me get in and out of your apartment without even noticing unless I want you to, is going to make sure they succeed."

Steve relaxes, rolling his eyes. "That's what I have Natasha for. Right now, everyone is still reeling from Hydra’s reveal; they're only just starting to get reorganized after all of that. I know I'm a target, but right now I'm not a high priority one."

"Natalia," the asset says pointedly, "can't prove that I've been here. Can she?"

"Because I haven't asked her to," Steve snaps, shoulders going tense as he turns back to his drink, cursing when he realizes the milk is about to boil over and quickly moving it off of the heat. 

The asset doesn't laugh. "Fine," he says. "I'll leave you alone. Let's see how long you last."

Steve whips around, looking at Bucky with wide eyes. "No, don't!" he says, too quickly - too desperately. "I - I'd miss you. Your company, I mean."

The asset raises an eyebrow, though it's a struggle to keep his expression impassive. "You'd miss your dead friend, who you should miss anyway."

Steve flushes, gaze flicking down. "I never said it was logical," he mutters, seeming to shrink into himself.

The asset rolls his eyes. "Maybe you should think about that," he says coldly. He waits until Steve turns back to the stove, and then takes his leave.

* * *

The asset doesn't let Steve Rogers see him again for two weeks. During this time, he gives as little thought as possible to their latest conversation, and he watches Steve Rogers deteriorate. He spends the first few days destroying the punching bags in the spare room, no doubt imagining the asset's face attached to every one, and then he seems to lose the energy to work out with any vigour and drops back down to first a twice-daily and then just a daily walk around the neighbourhood. The PopTarts come back with a vengeance, and the laundry piles up untouched at the foot of the bed.

By the time the asset sees fit to intervene, Steve Rogers hasn't gotten out of bed for two days.

Like every time before, Steve doesn’t hear the window open down the hall; there’s no way for him to hear the door open, because it’s been open for the past seventy-some hours. Steve just hasn’t felt like getting up to close it. He’s just considering the idea again when he glances over and pauses; Bucky is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. _He looks good,_ Steve thinks. After a moment of them staring at each other, Steve clears his throat. “Hey.”

The asset doesn't move. "Hey," he says. "I thought you were getting better."

"Recovery is not a straight line," Steve recites. "What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you're still alive," the asset answers flatly. He's irritated, for reasons he really doesn't want to examine right now. "You clearly are, so." He turns to leave.

"No, Bucky, wait!" Steve scrambles out of the bed, nearly falling out of it in the process. 

The asset stills, but doesn't turn. "Stop calling me that."

"No," Steve says stubbornly. "That's who you are. You're Bucky, damn it."

"I told you. Bucky is dead."

"You're standing right in front of me!"

"I'm not Bucky!"

"Yes you are! You remembered what you told me eighty years ago, something no one else has ever told me, or that I've ever told them!"

The asset's entire body freezes, seizes right up like he's back in the cryo tank. Where he's suddenly gripping it with his right hand, the doorframe splinters. "To the end of the line," he says dully.

Steve approaches cautiously. "Yeah," he agrees, voice quiet. "To the end of the line. I'm not going to go back on that."

"I think I already did." He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, lets out a shaky breath. "Steve?"

Steve steps closer, daring to reach out a hand to lay gently on Bucky's shoulder. "Yeah?"

When Bucky Barnes finally turns to look at Steve, he doesn't even notice how badly he's shaking. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?" Steve asks gently. 

Bucky's mouth works silently for a moment, and then he says, helplessly, " _Be._ "

Steve smiles, a small thing. "Well, maybe we can figure that out together."

Bucky tries to smile back, fails. "Okay."

* * *

They talk until the sun comes up. Well, Steve talks. Bucky listens, mostly. He tunes in and out at random, slips away from himself while Steve tells him how they spent their first Christmas after Steve's mother died and comes back to Steve knee-deep in a story about how they both teased Rebecca Barnes mercilessly when she came home with her first boyfriend, despite the fact that Steve himself was still waiting on his first kiss. Bucky knows he had a sister, knows he called her Becca and Becs but never Becky, but he can't remember her face. It bothers him.

Steve falls asleep somewhere between six and seven. Bucky, who never lets himself sleep in this apartment, doesn't. They started off on the bedroom floor, progressed to the bed when Steve complained about being cold, and that's where they've stayed. Steve, who spent the last several hours trying simultaneously to reach out for Bucky and to stop himself from doing so, has his head against Bucky's right shoulder, his hand on Bucky's thigh, and is snoring softly. It's surprisingly pleasant. Bucky doesn't want to disturb him, knows it would be cruel, but - he has to go.

He can't stay here a moment longer without his skin turning inside out.

He's careful, more careful than he's ever been with anyone, as far as he can remember. He gets Steve down onto the pillows, covers him with a blanket, and moves through the room silently, certain he's been successful - but when he reaches the door, looks back for the first time since he started all this, he sees that Steve is watching him.

Steve's been awake since Bucky moved him, couldn’t allow himself to sleep deeply knowing that Bucky was near. "You leaving?"

Bucky nods. "I can't stay here."

Steve swallows, his expression turning nervous. “You going to come back?”

Bucky just looks at him for a moment. The sun is up but for once the curtains are closed and the greyish light in the room makes Steve look ghostly, not-quite-there. "If you want me to."

”I do,” Steve says - far too hastily.

Bucky breathes out slow. "Okay," he says. "I don't know when."

Steve swallows, nods. "Okay," he says, quietly, like he wasn't expecting anything else.

Bucky sighs. "You need to look after yourself," he says. "Do some goddamn laundry and shower, eat something. Please."

"I'll try," Steve promises; it's the best he can do. 

Bucky supposes it'll have to be enough.

* * *

Now that he's open to it, it gets easier, remembering. It feels like Bucky finds a new piece of himself every day, sometimes multiple pieces. Each and every one tells him the same thing, though: that this thing with Steve is built into the very bones of him. Like he didn't already know.

He does go back to Steve, at least once a week. He isn't watching him quite as much anymore, but he is still watching, so he knows that for all that he's still struggling, Steve is trying. He's even succeeding, by degrees. He manages to get out of bed each day and eat and go for a walk, do some laundry or some dishes or some other chores, but he does so without heart, like a robot on autopilot. He does see his friends, sometimes, but he spends most of his nights alone, sitting in the middle of his bed with the light on and not even a book in sight. Bucky knows what he's waiting for.

The time they spend together, when Bucky can bring himself to show up, is good. Steve still does most of the talking and Bucky still badgers at him to take better care of himself before he leaves, but it's good. Steve learns pretty quickly that it's not worth asking Bucky to stay. Bucky starts coming around more often.

He's late, tonight. He wasn't going to come at all, was going to leave it 'til tomorrow, but he couldn't sleep for something nagging at him and the next thing he knew he was letting himself into the apartment, silent as a ghost like always. Steve doesn't leave the windows open or the doors unlocked, though he's offered; Bucky never knows when he's coming back and he'll probably have an aneurysm if Steve makes it any easier for other, not-so-friendly visitors to get to him. Besides, as he's proven countless times, he can get in anyway. He's grateful for it now, when he lets himself into Steve's bedroom and finds him already sleeping, anything but peacefully.

"Steve," Bucky murmurs, a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Steve's eyes fly open as he gasps; it's only the fact that he recognizes Bucky's voice that keeps him from lashing out. Instead, he reaches up, clutching at Bucky's wrist. "Bucky?"

"Yeah," Bucky rasps. "Yeah, I'm here. You're okay. It was just a dream."

Steve takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay. Alright. It just - It felt real. Like I was living it all over again."

"What?" Bucky asks. He sits down on the edge of the bed, squeezes Steve's shoulder. "What were you dreaming about?"

Steve hesitates, then shifts over, taking Bucky's hand in his and giving a slight tug. "Lie down with me?"

Bucky does so without thinking, turns so that he's on his side facing Steve, the pillow shared between them. Even in the dark, he can see the anguish on Steve's face. "You can tell me," he says softly.

Steve takes a deep breath, and - without meeting Bucky's eyes - begins to speak. "It was the day you fell. I - The serum, it enhanced my memory, too, along with everything else. I always had a pretty good memory, but now it's photographic. It was back then, too. I can remember everything in perfect detail, including the look on your face when the railing started to give, when you realized I wouldn't be able to reach you."

Bucky closes his eyes. That moment has yet to come back to him in its entirety, but he remembers the terror, the sound of the wind whipping past him. "Steve," he sighs. "It wasn't your fault." This, more than anything, he knows.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't haunt me," he mutters. "I should've gone back, should've insisted that someone send a group to look for your body. Maybe if I had..."

"Don't," Bucky tells him, firm for all that his voice is barely more than a whisper. "You can't think like that. It's not worth it."

"I can't help it, sometimes," Steve confesses. 

"Steve," Bucky sighs, "I'm right here."

"I know, but - I still can't shake the thoughts. I went almost two and half years thinking you were dead. That's a lot of nightmares of watching you fall."

Without thinking, Bucky takes Steve's hand, tucks it up against his chest right over his heart. "What do you need?" he breathes.

 _You to stay,_ Steve thinks - but that way lies trouble, for more than one reason. So instead, he says, "You. Just you."

And that, Bucky can do. He shifts impossibly closer, doesn't stop until their noses are brushing and Steve's hand has fallen to his waist to steady him, and then he closes his eyes and brings their mouths together.

Steve's heart is beating so fast he can't distinguish the individual beats - that, or it's stopped altogether as his brain reboots, tries to comprehend what's happening. As soon as it sinks in, however, Steve is letting out a wounded noise he can't bring himself to be ashamed of and pressing closer, the hand on Bucky's waist shifting around to twist his fingers in the fabric of Bucky's shirt, desperate for proof that _this is real._

Steve has never touched Bucky so much before, but Bucky doesn't care. He invited this, he _wants_ this when he can't remember ever wanting anything, and he's pulling Steve closer.

Steve lets go, gives himself over to the feeling of Bucky pressed against him, the easy give and take as they kiss. Eventually, however, they have to pull apart to breathe, and Steve takes the opportunity to ask, "Do you mean this?"

Bucky's first instinct is to hit him, not hard, but to just push his hand into Steve's face and shove. Maybe laugh while he does it, and then pull Steve in again and kiss him some more. He doesn't. Instead, he just peers at Steve through the gloom and says, "I think so."

Steve hesitates. "You think?"

Bucky bites his lip. "I'm not sure of much," he says. "But I wanted to."

Steve considers that, takes a deep breath, and then nods. "Okay. Do you want to do it again?"

Bucky smiles. "If you do."

"I do."

Bucky's smile becomes a grin, and he pulls Steve back into his arms.

* * *

The next few weeks are some of the best in Steve's life - and, objectively, the worst. He still leaves the apartment for the first week, but gradually, he starts staying in more and more. He makes excuses when Sam and Natasha ask him about it, blames the winter months and lack of sunlight, the awful weather whenever he can. He seizes any excuse he can find to spend more time with Bucky, drowning in kisses and touches that he can't get enough of. 

He can't always come up with an excuse, however - and in the back of his mind, Steve knows he shouldn't be making as many as he is. Today is one such day; it's bright and sunny, a faint breeze stirring the air along the city streets, and Natasha and Sam seem determined not to take 'no' for an answer today, not when - in Sam's words, backed up by Natasha's impressively raised eyebrow - Steve's "been holed up in this damn apartment like some hibernating bear all month!" 

They take Steve a few blocks down the street to a small tea shop - it's cozy, homey in a way that reminds Steve of his grandmother's apartment, way back when he was a kid(minus the door in the back of this shop that he's pretty sure leads to a hookah lounge). The shop sells tea, coffee, and a variety of pastries, and they all pick something to eat and drink before Steve gets herded into a booth, Natasha sitting next to him, blocking him in with Sam across from him. "I'm feeling very cornered right now," Steve observes, side-eyeing Natasha. "Is this an outing or an intervention?"

"You tell us," Natasha says, sipping casually at her tea in a way that is anything but casual. "Do you need an intervention?"

Steve ignores his first instinct, which is to freeze like a startled deer. Instead, he rolls his eyes. "No."

"Then it's not," Natasha says lightly. "It's just two friends finally meeting up with their other friend, and asking where the hell he thinks he's been."

"Uh, in my apartment?"

"Avoiding us," Natasha supplies. "Why?"

Steve shrugs. "I just haven't felt like being social too much lately. I'm working on it."

Sam leans forward, then. "You've been doing so well," he says. "Obviously we know nothing's going to get better overnight. We're just concerned."

"I appreciate it," Steve says, "but I'm good. Really."

"Will you reach out to us if that changes?" Sam asks.

Steve only feels a little guilty for lying about his answer. "Yes."

Sam sits back, apparently satisfied, but Natasha isn't so easy to convince. "We're going to keep an eye on you," she warns him. "But I guess we can put a pin in the cross-examination for now."

Steve shakes his head. "So generous," he teases. 

Natasha winks. "That's me."

* * *

Bucky still doesn't go to Steve's every night. He can't. That's too much like getting attached and he... can't feel that way. But Steve hardly ever leaves his apartment now, and he always looks so happy to see Bucky, and Bucky... Steve makes him happy, too. He makes him feel things he never thought he could feel again. Because he did feel them before; he knows now that this thing between them is new, but that what's driving it is almost as old as he is. So he goes back.

Every other night, every third night, whenever the itch gets too much, he goes back. Crawls between Steve's sheets and kisses him awake, kisses him until he falls back to sleep and then holds him until just before dawn, until he needs to leave again. And because it has to be, it's enough.

Except it's not.

One night, sometime after midnight but before sunrise, Steve makes a request of Bucky. It's something he's been wanting for weeks - months - _decades_ \- and now, in this wonderful twilight where time doesn't exist, where he sometimes wonders if either of them exist, either, Steve finds his tongue loosening. They're lying on Steve's bed, curled up together, touching everywhere there's exposed skin, trading soft and easy kisses that get briefly heated before cooling again, ebbing like the tide. It's when that tide is high, when Steve is almost able to forget the chill of the ice and snow and sting of the wind on his cheeks, that he speaks. 

"Tell me you love me." 

Bucky's breathing hitches in his chest, and he barely finds it in himself to pull back, to search what little he can see of Steve's face. "What?" he breathes.

"Tell me you love me," Steve repeats, voice soft. "I just... I want - I _need_ \- to hear you say it, at least once."

And how can Bucky refuse him, when he puts it like that? "I love you," he sighs, falling against Steve once more to claim his mouth in a hungry, almost desperate kiss. "I love you so much, Steve."

Steve ignores the sting at the corner of his eyes as he kisses Bucky back, desperate. "I love you," he breathes. "I love you, I love you."

Bucky lets himself stay a little longer that night.

* * *

Steve’s happier than he can remember being in a very long time. Bucky said he loved Steve - and sounded like he meant it. It’s what Steve’s dreamt of hearing since they were teenagers, and he can’t find it within himself to care about the circumstances under which he heard it. Since this started, Bucky’s rarely come back two nights in a row - he never comes by in the day, only ever lit by moonlight, only ever when he has to wake Steve up. Steve’s made more excuses than he can keep track of, these past several weeks. He knows Natasha and Sam are worried, and he’s even gotten a couple of messages from Bruce and one from Tony. They’re all concerned about him, and he feels guilty for worrying them, but he can’t give up any possibility of time with Bucky.

He’s been going to bed earlier than ever; he’s managed to get out of bed, if not out of the apartment, but it’s still a reversal of the progress he had been making, he knows. He just can’t bring himself to care.

Bucky comes back the night after the declaration. And the night after that, and the night after that. Steve finds himself doing nothing more than killing time until he can go back to bed those days; he becomes so focused on hoping, wishing, that Bucky will come that night that he doesn’t notice when his phone goes dead; he’d long ago put it on silent. Steve all but forgets about the outside world, until the outside world comes knocking. Or, more accurately, trying to break his door down in the middle of the night.

"Steve!" Sam's voice echoes through the apartment. "Steve, if you don't answer this door right now, I'm letting Stark blow a hole in the wall. _Steve!_ "

"Jesus, alright, I'm coming!" Steve calls, rolling out of bed without looking back. He doesn't bother putting anything more than a loose pair of sweats on, and he looks like he hasn't slept at all when he opens the door. "It's five o'clock in the morning, Sam."

"And you've been AWOL for almost three days," Sam snaps. "Your phone is dead, no one's seen or heard any movement from this apartment in over twenty-four hours, and we were _this close_ \--" He holds up his hand, thumb and forefinger barely a hair's breadth apart. "--to suiting up and tearing the city apart to find you. You're damn fucking right it's five AM. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "It's just been a couple of bad days. Haven't felt like doing much, so I haven't left. I'm sorry for worrying you."

"You're joking, right?" Sam demands. "That's all you have to say for yourself? You're our friend, Steve, you're our teammate. We care about you. What the fuck could possibly be so overwhelming that you couldn't just reach out to--" He cuts himself off abruptly, his gaze going to somewhere just over Steve's left shoulder, towards the bedroom. " _Fuck_ ," he breathes, and then he's going for a weapon Steve didn't even know he was carrying.

Steve instinctively backs up, hands raised. "Sam? What the hell are you - "

"It's all right, Steve," Bucky's voice tells him calmly. "He ain't pointing that at you."

Steve freezes. "What?"

Sam's attention shifts back to Steve only for a second. "Tell me you're kidding. Get that dumb look off your face. The Winter Soldier waltzes right out of your fucking bedroom, _shirtless_ , and you're looking at _me_ like I'm insane?"

"Easy," Bucky's voice murmurs. "I'm not armed."

"Shut the fuck up," Sam spits. The safety on the gun is off and his finger twitches against the trigger. "Your entire body is a weapon; you're always armed."

A soft sound that could be amusement or just acknowledgement. "You're better at this than I expected."

"Wait, _wait,_ " Steve says, a bit desperately; he's so confused, he blurts out the single loudest thought in his mind. "You mean you can _see_ him?"

Two pairs of eyes fix themselves upon Steve; Sam's so surprised he even lowers his gun a little. "What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I can see him; he's right there!"

Steve's eyes are wide, his pulse roaring in his ears so loudly he can barely hear Sam speak over it. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees Bucky, looking much the same as he had that night, but when he looks back at Sam - Sam's glancing between the two of them. "He's really here?"

"Yes," Sam says, slowly, his eyes wide. "The Winter Soldier. Shirtless. In your apartment."

Steve glances back at Bucky, lost. He doesn't even realize he's speaking. "I didn't - I thought..."

And Bucky finally understands. "You thought I wasn't real." He sighs, pushes his left hand through his hair. "Christ, Steve, it's been months."

" _Months?_ "

"I - You never left any evidence, there was nothing to say you'd ever really been here!"

"The fruit, the laundry, the fact that you've been feeling me up every night for the past week - none of that clicked with you?"

"Considering I spent most of those first weeks in a complete fog, I thought I just forgot I did that stuff," Steve snaps. "Wouldn't be the first time. And then - Well, I thought I just finally lost it."

Bucky looks at Steve like Steve just stabbed him. " _Christ_ ," he says again, but before he can go on, Sam interrupts.

"You're telling me," he says, low, even, "that you've had your head up your ass this whole time because the _Winter Soldier_ has been paying you nightly visits and you thought that you were _imagining him?_ "

"Don't call me that." Bucky's tone is mild, but his eyes flash when he looks at Sam. "My name is Bucky."

"I don't care!"

"He never tried to hurt me, and he's - He's been acting differently since this started," Steve says, looking back at Sam. "He's not the Winter Soldier anymore."

"I don't give a rat's ass who he is!" Sam cries. "This isn't about him, Steve! This is about you being an asshole!"

"What? Just because I didn't want to worry you and Natasha more than I already was, that makes me an asshole?" Steve demands, arms crossing over his chest in a defensive gesture. 

"No," Sam snaps, "you're an asshole because you can't even see that we were worried anyway!"

Bucky turns back to the bedroom.

"So what did you want me to do?" Steve asks; he doesn't notice Bucky leaving. "I'm sorry I got stuck in my own problems, but there's nothing I can do about that now!"

"You've been stuck in your own problems since I met you," Sam snaps, "and you don't care about anyone else, you don't care about what we'd do to help you, you just care about wallowing in your own misery. And then holy shit, _Bucky Barnes_ turns up and you drop literally everything even though you don't even think he's real, and then fuck the rest of us! I don't want you to do anything, Steve, except _open your eyes!_ "

Sam's words and tone take Steve aback; he doesn't do or say anything for several long moment's, digesting what Sam just said. "I'm sorry," he says, eventually. "I - I didn't even... Bucky was always the most important thing to me, and that overshadowed everything else. Including you guys."

Sam deflates a little, takes a breath before he speaks again. "I know he's important to you," he says. "I get it. I'm not saying you have to put us before him, or even put us on equal footing. But you have to respect us."

"Which I haven't been doing," Steve finishes, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. You're right, I need to work on that, no excuses. But I don't, I'm not good at keeping things prioritized."

"Yeah, no shit," Sam huffs, not unkindly. "Where's your boy?"

Steve glances over his shoulder, but Bucky's long gone by now. He looks back at Sam and shrugs, doing his best to ignore the tightness in his chest. "He usually leaves without me noticing."

"Right." Sam shakes his head, offers Steve a smile. "Come on. I don't know about you, but I'm way too keyed up to sleep. Why don't I make us some breakfast and you can tell me what's been going on?"

Steve hesitates a moment, glancing back over his shoulder in the direction of his bedroom before he turns back to Sam. "Yeah. That sounds good."

"You can go in there if you want," Sam offers. "See if he hasn't left yet."

Steve shakes his head. "No, he's probably gone," he says quietly. "I wouldn't hang around either, if I found out..."

Sam sighs. "Look, Steve, I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have barged in here and spoken to you like that. It was a bit of a shock for all of us, but he'll be back."

"No idea when, though," Steve points out. "And it was stuff I needed to hear. I could've done with a bit less yelling at the time, but I still needed to hear what you said."

"What you've been going through is huge," Sam tells him. "I wish you'd felt like you could tell us about it, sure, but I get it. If Riley suddenly came knocking in the night, I wouldn't care if he was real or not either."

"At first, he didn't even say anything. I actually didn't even see him, come to think of it. There were just little things moved, things I could dismiss as stuff I'd forgotten about," Steve admits. "And he didn't speak the first few times I saw him. Bolted as soon as I did, actually."

Sam leads them into the kitchen and pushes Steve into a chair. "But then he started engaging with you?" he prompts. "Do you have any eggs?"

"Yeah, top shelf of the fridge," Steve says, leaning forward so he can brace his elbows on the table as he tells Sam everything. He leaves nothing out, and by the time he's finished, he feels drained. Drained, but also, somehow, better for having said aloud every thought and worry that has plagued him. Sam doesn't speak much, only asking the occasional question while Steve talks, and when he's finished, the two of them sit in companionable silence for several minutes. Eventually, Sam promises to listen whenever Steve needs to talk, and Steve promises to think more over what Sam said, and to talk when he needs to. 

* * *

Bucky doesn't come back at all - that Steve notices, anyway - for the next week. But someone else does notice, and she finally decides to take matters into her own hands. _No one else appears to be doing that,_ Natasha reasons as she approaches the figure on the roof of the building across from Steve's. _And it's not going to help anyone if nothing gets done._

"Back to the beginning?" she calls when she's still several feet away. "Just stalking him, not interacting in any way?"

Bucky doesn't flinch, doesn't turn, doesn't give any indication that he heard her speak at all. After several long moments, he says, "Someone needs to watch his back. And I needed time to think."

"You done thinking?"

Bucky shrugs a shoulder. "Don't know," he says. "Don't know that it's any of your business, either."

“Steve misses you,” Natasha says. “He’s my business, because he’s my friend. So, yes, it’s my business if you’re going to stay away.”

Bucky still isn't looking at her, so she doesn't see it when he rolls his eyes. "Steve's fine," he says, "and I don't trust a word you say."

”No, he’s really not,” Natasha counters, moving closer until she’s standing at Bucky’s side. “He’s going out more, sure, but he’s not animated. He’s not even _trying_ to pretend he’s sleeping more than an hour a night, or that he isn’t just killing time until he can leave whenever he hangs out with the whole group. I know you trained me to be a spy, to lie about everything I say and do, but you and Steve both deserve the truth. Steve’s saved my life more than once, and I know some of what you’ve been through.”

"I know all of what you went through, at the beginning," Bucky tells her. "No one comes back from that."

“It’s still a work in progress,” Natasha agrees. “But it is progressing. Just like you’ve been, until you went back to skulking on rooftops.”

Bucky shakes his head. "That wasn't progress. That was denial."

“Even denial is one of the stages of grieving,” she points out. “Are you going to stay in denial? Are you going back to Hydra? Or are you going to try to figure out who you are when you aren’t the Bucky he knew or the weapon Hydra used?”

"Give it a rest," Bucky snaps. "You don't know anything about me. Neither does Steve."

"Do you want it to stay that way? Because Steve sure as hell doesn't."

Bucky scoffs. "Steve doesn't know what he wants."

"Really? Why don't you go ask him yourself, then?" Natasha asks, eyebrow raised. "You're certainly not busy, and neither is he."

"I ought to snap your neck for going anywhere near him," Bucky says mildly. "He seems to think you're trustworthy, but I don't need to tell you how naive he is. How long have you known?"

"You need to work on your intelligence gathering skills, they're obviously rusty," Natasha observes, unbothered by the idle threat. "And I've known for weeks. Since shortly before you started spending most nights in his apartment. I thought Steve would tell us when he was ready, but..." She frowns, obviously bothered by her misjudgment. "It didn't occur to me that he would be doubting his own sanity, and thinking you were a hallucination."

"Nope." Bucky pops the P. "Didn't occur to me, either. Guess we're both rusty."

"Then we should get back into practice," Natasha says brightly, seizing upon the opening she created. "But we can't do that if you aren't talking to Steve; I can't stand his puppy eyes. He'll give me his best ones if I tell him that you and I are working together."

"We're not working together," Bucky points out. "And if you actually cared about Steve, you wouldn't be here."

This time both eyebrows raise. "How do you figure that?"

Bucky sighs. "Steve didn't think I was real," he says, slowly, like he's talking to a child. "A hallucination doesn't have a past. A hallucination can't kill someone. He let me into his home and into his bed because he thought I wasn't the Winter Soldier."

"And yet, you never tried to kill him," Natasha observes. "The fact that Steve thought you were a hallucination is a problem, yes - but that isn't your fault. Steve blew off plans with us in the hopes that he would see you. From where I'm standing, that means he thought you made him happy. Right now, you're clearly making him miserable by staying away."

Bucky does look at her then, turns his head so that he can shoot her a scathing sidelong glance before resuming his position. "I raised you smarter than that," he quips. "The version of me that made him happy doesn't exist. As long as he thought I was a hallucination, he could kid himself that I never killed all those people; that I never tried to kill him."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "And I know you never let Steve get _that_ dumb. Neither did I, for that matter, and no offense, but I've still got a year and a half on your time with the Steve of recent years. You're giving him too little credit, Barnes. And you're also starting to sound like you're _scared_ to go talk to him."

"I'm not scared," Bucky says. "I'm trying to look out for him. Something no one else seems able to do."

"Right. I'll just walk across the street and tell him that, then. Then you can watch him make sad faces out the window at you. I'll even tell him where you like to do surveillance from, so he can look right at you while he does it." Natasha nods to herself, seemingly satisfied, and turns to leave, calling over her shoulder, "I'll also tell Stark and Sam so they know not to get paranoid about Steve's newest stalker."

"It'd be news to them that he even has a stalker, believe me," Bucky calls back, but he's smiling. She knows what she's about, that woman, he'll give her that.

* * *

Steve doesn’t go to Bucky that day, despite the fact that Natasha clearly expects him to. It takes him a couple of days, actually, to work up the courage to go across the street and climb to the roof of the building he’s pretty sure Bucky is on. He’s relieved when he’s right, when he spots Bucky on the edge of the roof waiting for him. “Hey,” he says quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the traffic echoing up from the street. “I... I think we need to talk.”

Bucky has even less inclination to look at Steve than he had to look at Natasha. "If you say so," he says. "I think you said everything that needs saying when Wilson barged in on us."

Steve sighs, coming closer until he's standing next to Bucky. "I was thrown off-balance," he says. "And what I said, it wasn't a lie. But Natasha thinks there's still some things we need to clear up, if only so we're on the same page, and I agree."

"You need help," Bucky says, rather than pursue Steve's line of conversation. "Like, serious professional help. And that's coming from me."

"I know, and I'm going to be starting soon," Steve says. "I have an appointment and everything. But that doesn't change the fact that there's things I at least need to tell you, even if you don't want to talk about them with me."

Bucky sighs heavily, and he drops his head so that his chin is almost resting on his chest. "What?"

"Nat said you thought I only let you into my house and my bed because I thought you were the Bucky I knew," he says quietly. "I didn't. I knew you were different, because there's seventy years difference between the Bucky I knew and who you are now. I just didn't care, because any version of you was worth having."

Bucky laughs, a dry, hollow thing. "Not this version of me."

"You were alive. Or at least, I knew you were alive _somewhere._ That made you worth it."

Bucky laughs, can't not. "You're so full of shit," he says. "You hardly know the first thing about me, and what you do know should scare you out of your goddamn mind."

Steve shrugs. "You're not that scary compared to Schmidt, or a literal alien invasion," he points out. "And maybe I am out of my mind, but the fact remains that I'm not scared of you, and I still want to know you."

Bucky turns to look at him then, his expression wary but more open than Steve has seen it outside of his bedroom at three AM. "Why?"

"Because you're Bucky. I know you're not the Bucky I knew before the war, or during it. I know you're not exactly the Bucky I thought I was getting to know in the past few months. But I still want to know you."

Bucky shakes his head. "You're an idiot," he says.

"Probably," Steve agrees. "But I'm an idiot who loves you."

Bucky's eyes widen just a fraction, his lips part, but he doesn't argue, doesn't tell Steve he's wrong. "I've killed people," he says instead. "I've worse than killed people. We're never going to know how many. I could relapse and go after you again. I could hurt your friends, or other people, people like them." He jerks his head to indicate the hundreds, maybe thousands of people on the streets below them. "If you looked up 'death wish' in the dictionary, 'loving Bucky Barnes' would be written right underneath."

"Have you hurt anyone since D.C.?" Steve counters. "You were made to do awful shit in the past - Natasha was able to find some of your files after calling in some favors. But that wasn't _you._ Hydra made you do those things."

"That doesn't change the fact that I did it," Bucky argues. "My weapons, my hands. It's my head they filled with their poison. That doesn't go away."

"Natasha would know about that better than me," Steve admits, "but just because the past doesn't go away doesn't mean you can't decide to change your future."

"Maybe not," Bucky allows. "But you can't go into something like this with your eyes closed, Steve."

"Bucky, my eyes aren't closed," Steve says, as patiently as possible. "The serum, that machine, I already told you they enhanced my memory. I literally cannot forget anything. I know, in general, what you were forced to do, what Hydra forced you into being. Natasha told me, once she found out the truth, about what she went through after leaving the Red Room. She said it would probably be worse for you, you'd have a higher chance of relapsing. And we haven't found all of the records regarding you, but she, Stark, Clint, and Fury are still looking, trying to find anything that might have been missed so we can help you and make sure that information doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

"And what about you?" Bucky asks. "What about us? You spent the last six months thinking you were courting a ghost. You're in love with a man who barely even knows himself, who might wake up in the middle of the night and murder you because he doesn't know who _you_ are, and then eat a fucking bullet when he comes to because God knows, he loves you back. So much it feels like he can't breathe sometimes. What do you do with that?"

"He didn't murder me even when I gave him the chance," Steve reminds him. "I took my helmet off, threw my shield in the river, and let him beat the shit out of me. He didn't kill me, and he even _saved_ me. He had plenty of opportunities to kill me over the past six months, and didn't take a single one. What I do with that, is admit that while there's always the possibility he could kill me in the middle of the night, the statistics say that he won't. History says that he won't. And I say that I still want to be his friend, if nothing else, and help him figure out who he is, help him secure a future for himself."

Bucky takes a long moment to process that, but at last he nods, pushes a hand through his unruly hair. "Is that all you want?" he asks. "Friendship?"

Steve takes a deep breath. "I think that's where we need to start," he says carefully. "I... don't think it would be a good idea if we tried to jump right into a romantic relationship. I'd like to try that, eventually, but for right now, I don't think that would be smart. Neither of us are exactly in great headspaces right now."

Bucky nods again. "And you're getting help?"

"Yeah," Steve agrees. "Like I said, I've got my first appointment in a week or so."

Bucky lets out a breath. "Okay," he says. "We'll start there. We'll try."

* * *

So they try. Steve ends up moving back to the Tower, and Bucky moves into Steve’s old apartment. Technically, Steve is still renting that apartment, and while Bucky doesn’t live there all the time, it’s a more reliable place to get off of the street whenever he wants or needs to. 

Steve starts seeing a psychiatrist, Dr. Martin, and while the sessions are difficult, Steve knows they’re necessary. At first, he doesn’t feel much better - in fact, he feels worse more often than not, utterly drained and exhausted. But he keeps going, and gradually, he starts feeling better after each session. His first bad day after he starts is... awful, in a word. He’d managed to delude himself into thinking they wouldn’t happen, and when he realizes that it _is,_ he crashes - hard. He barely leaves his room that day, only for the bathroom and to get some food at one point. But he makes it through, and talks through what happened that day and the days before with Dr. Martin, who has advice for helping Steve at least recognize potential warning signs. He weathers the next bad day better, and eventually, he goes from having bad days and ‘meh’ days, to having bad days, ‘meh’ days, and even the occasional good day.

Steve and Bucky meet up in public now, often meeting at street corners and going for walks around the city. Sometimes they talk about the past, sometimes the present, and sometimes they don’t talk at all, spending the time together in silence. A few months later finds Steve and Bucky in that old apartment, however; it’s raining, and they decide to spend the day they usually spend out and about watching movies. “So, I’ve heard very mixed messages about _Star Wars_ ,” Steve muses. “Apparently the old ones are very good, but the... prequels, I think Stark called them, are shit. But the newer sequels are good?”

Bucky shakes his head. "I've heard different," he offers. "Apparently the prequels and the original movies are very different, thematically. People prefer the originals because they're being precious and overly nostalgic, but the prequels are perfectly good movies in their own right." He hesitates, his smile somewhat embarrassed. "At least, that's what I overheard a girl in Starbucks saying a few weeks ago." Steve isn't the only one getting better; Bucky started seeing a therapist about a month after Steve did, and while it isn't working out for him quite as well just yet, he is improving. Case in point: he spends at least an hour a day in public, now, people watching and drinking coffees with questionable sugar content.

"Well, I've never seen any of them, so I can't be nostalgic about the ones from the seventies and eighties," Steve laughs. "Why don't we watch them from - what are they called, episodes? - _Episode One_ and go in order?"

"I'm up for it," Bucky agrees. "Maybe afterwards you can break the internet with some unpopular opinions."

Steve snickers. "That would be fun," he agrees. "Alright. Let's load up the first one, then. You got the case?"

Bucky grabs it, gives it a wave. "Let's do this."

* * *

They started just after midday, so they get through the first two movies easily, with a break in the middle for something to eat and a period of mourning for Qui-Gon. Bucky didn't really know what to expect, but he's enjoying himself, and he thinks Steve is, too. They can at least both agree that R2-D2 is hilarious - and that Obi-Wan Kenobi is a _specimen_.

It's just going dark by the time the second movie finishes. They should probably start thinking about dinner, but neither of them are particularly inclined to move. Bucky is comfortable, Steve a warm and pleasant weight against his side despite the fact that they began their afternoon on opposite ends of the couch, and it's easy to forget that Steve will have to leave soon. At least, it is until the DVD goes back to the menu screen. Bucky sighs.

"Getting sleepy?" Steve asks, gently teasing. 

"No," Bucky says, turning his head to blink up at Steve. "No, just thinkin'."

"Thinking about what?" Steve asks, curious, shifting so he can better face Bucky. 

Bucky shrugs. "It's weird," he says, "bein' here without you."

Steve laughs softly. "Yeah, I guess it is. It's weird not seeing you most nights."

Bucky smiles. "I don't think Stark would appreciate it if I tried to break into the Tower."

"He doesn't like it when _Nat_ comes back in too late," Steve laughs, shifting just a bit more, settling against Bucky more comfortably. 

"You could always break in here," Bucky suggests.

"Would you want me to?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "You really gotta ask?"

Steve grins. "I just wanna be sure," he says, voice dropping to a murmur. 

Bucky's own expression softens, and the look he gives Steve is incredibly tender. "Why do you think I spent half a year stalking you?"

"Well, I thought it was either because I was so irresistible, or because I was so pathetic," Steve jokes. 

Bucky's smile returns. "Definitely both," he teases. He takes a breath. "Steve..."

He doesn't know who moves first, but in the next moment, they're kissing.

Steve’s surprised by the kiss, but he doesn’t shy away; instead, he leans in, tilting his head for a better angle. The kiss stays gentle, chaste, and when they finally pull apart, their breathing is barely laboured, but Steve still feels lightheaded as he asks, tentative, “Buck?”

"I'm sick of this," Bucky tells him, raw and honest. "We're both doing a hell of a lot better than we were two months ago, and I know, I _know_ I made things so much worse for you for a good while back there, but I'm thinking maybe at this point we're just punishing ourselves for no reason."

Steve hesitates torn; everything he wants, Bucky’s offering. Everything he’s wanted for _years,_ but never more than the past couple of months. “I want to,” he confesses, barely louder than a whisper. “But... It wasn’t you making things worse. I was already in a bad way. I’m doing better, and I know you are, too, but what if we actually make things worse again?”

Bucky takes a breath. "Do you think we're doing better now because we're apart?" he asks.

"I... I don't think it's _because_ of that," Steve says after a moment's thought. "But I'm worried it's a part of it, that we aren't so close. And I don't know if that worry's unfounded."

"I'm not suggesting we get hitched tomorrow," Bucky points out, a hint of mirth colouring his otherwise serious expression. "We can take it slow. Talk to your shrink about it; I'll talk to mine. And hey, I think I've seen enough of you this year to know the warning signs. If push comes to shove, I'll kick my own sorry ass to the curb."

Steve laughs, a helpless, breathless thing. "Okay," he says. " Slow sounds good to me. I just... worry. Had a lot of time to over-think things lately, when I've had trouble sleeping."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Well," he says, "at least I'm not the only one."

"No, you're not," Steve says, but he's smiling. "So... you really want to give this a try?"

"If you do," Bucky tells him. He catches Steve's eye, and his own smile is more sure now. "End of the line, remember?"

Steve reaches out, takes Bucky's hand in his. "How could I forget?"


End file.
